Shadow Of The Bat: Flying Solo
by killakenny
Summary: In Gotham City, the streets and the alleys are not the only killing grounds. Even centers of learning have their dogged days when criminals come lurking. In an aging cathedral, high school students dance the night away at their prom until guns are drawn and blood is spilled. Everyone's favorite sidekick, ROBIN, is first to respond! Expect a cameo from NIGHTWING!
1. Introduction

SHADOW OF THE BAT: Flying Solo

In Gotham City, the streets and the alleys are not the only killing grounds. Even centers of learning have their dogged days when criminals come lurking. In an aging cathedral, unsuspecting students from a local high school dance the night away at their long awaited prom night until guns are drawn and blood is spilled. Everyone's favorite sidekick, ROBIN, is first to respond. The question is: Does he have what it takes to save the lives of the adolescent Gothamites? Will his mentor's lessons see him through perhaps his greatest challenge? And, is he prepared to deal with the horror of such a terrible situation when it becomes personal?

"Flying Solo" is a short story that re-envisions the young vigilante, Robin, in a dark, unforgiving Gotham City. Through him, we get a unique peek into, perhaps, what Batman experienced in his early years as a vigilante and witness the terrible things that forged an innocent man into the legend we all love. Expect a visit, too, from the man we've all been waiting for: The High Flying NIGHTWING! Strap on your capes and pull on your cowls, it's going to be an explosive one!

By Killa Kenny

Disclaimer:

I do not own Batman. DC Comics and Bob Cane do. I'm just a huge fan that grew up in the

shadow of the bat, that wants to expand the mythos.

STAY TUNED FOR:

Shadow Of The Bat: Created Equal  
>Shadow Of The Bat: Bats Of A Leather<br>Shadow Of The Bat: Janus  
>Shadow Of The Bat: To Kill A Gotham Bird<br>Shadow Of The Bat: Devils' Night


	2. More Curious Than Cautious

:::Excerpt from SHADOW OF THE BAT: Bats Of A Leather:::

My name is Tim Drake and, other than the fact that I'm one-fourth of a team of vigilantes, I'm a pretty typical eighteen year-old. I enjoy video games, attend college online, watch reality TV, and date when I have the time—don't really have much time, though. I mean I clearly don't live a _typical_ teenage life, being Robin and all—that takes up a lot of free time. Robin did major surgery to my life, now everything's different.

Three years ago—before I lost my mother to cancer—Bruce Wayne showed up on my doorstep out of the blue and offered to pay all of my mother's medical bills. On top of that, he wanted to pay all of my family's living expenses as well as my schooling. It was like a dream come true—a miracle. My dad broke-down crying, completely overwhelmed by Mr. Wayne's generosity. Dad had been working three jobs trying to keep us afloat with the rising medical costs but with Mr. Wayne's help, he was able to devote more time to being with my mother through her recovery. Mr. Wayne didn't ask for anything in return, either. Even when my mother passed in spite of all the treatment, Mr. Wayne continued to help me and my father financially. Before that day, I never believed in _something-for-nothing_.

Mr. Wayne changed that belief.

I discovered later that the reason that Mr. Wayne had come to our aid was because I had come to his first.

One night, my buddy was hosting the getty-to-end-all-getties (_Getty_ is short for _get-together_ for all the old-heads that aren't cool enough to update once in a while). I'm not sure how he managed to fit so many people into that small tenement but it was one hell of a good time; half random-party and half celebration for me taking the regional-championship for my age group in the MMA circuit. I wasn't the most popular kid in school, but I sure was the most popular kid that night. Suddenly, every girl that _never_ paid me any attention on normal days treated me like a celebrity. Not sure if it was because I was labeled the best cage-fighter in the region or if it was because they pitied my bruised and swollen face. Whatever the reason, it felt good. Unfortunately, I had to cut my night short because my dad told me I needed to be home by midnight so we could go visit my mother in the hospital the next morning. Too bad too, because I really hit it off with this girl named Stephanie Brown. She was a year younger than me and was from a much nicer area of a Gotham—a Downtown girl who went to _St. Phillip Christian Academy of South Hinkley._ Itwasa private school with a reputation for really hot gymnasts and volleyball players;Stephanie was both.

I spent so much time talking to her, in fact, that I had lost track of time and realized that I was going to be late getting home. We traded numbers and then I split and jogged to the train station. My dad was going to be livid that I was going to be late but Stephanie's number was worth the ass-chewing. Besides, my old man was a push-over. His anger was all for show. He'd forget that he was angry at me the next day and by lunch I'd have back whatever privileges he decided to take. So I planned to call Stephanie that evening and see if she was down to see a movie or something.

I was on the station ramp by myself waiting for the train and that was making me a bit paranoid. I knew better than to go anywhere in Gotham without some back but none of my boys wanted to leave the party. So that left me to fend for myself. I could fight; that was no doubt. Thing is: no gangster in Gotham believed in a fair fight and neither did the urban legends. And Gotham was full of gangsters and urban legends. The news rotated nonstop stories of gangland drive-by shootings or urban legends mauling unfortunate souls. I didn't need to be a victim of either if I could help it.

I remember hearing a scraping sound coming down the stairs of the station. My heart began to bang against the inside of my ribcage. I prayed that it was some homeless guy being obnoxious and not any of the local predators.

Who ran this side of town, anyway? Lennox Ave Mobsters? No, they didn't come north of the causeway. Had to be the DoLo Rollers. Those idiots were extra goonish—and for no reason. At least I could have talked my way out of some drama with Lennox. I didn't know any of the DoLos. There'd be no chance of me worming my way out of anything with them. I was going to end up a bloody smear on a Gotham boulevard. Not how I hoped my night would end especially after things went so dope at Felix's getty. I looked around the station for a quick exit. There were no others. There was only one way in and one way out.

I could hear the roar of the next train coming down the tunnel. Maybe I'd make the train before things had a chance to get messy. It was going to be tight. If I didn't make the train before they got down here, I would at least put up a fight. I swallowed hard, I wasn't going to go out like a punk.

A shadow spilled onto the ramp from the stairs. It was like nothing I'd ever seen—like something off of FEARnet. The shadow was long and barely human with horns growing out of what I thought was its head. The shadow grew as it slithered across the platform to my feet like spilled ink. It was attached to a huge monster of a creature blotted out by the streetlight at the top of the steps. I couldn't make out its features other than its gargoyle-like silhouette as it stumbled several paces off the last step and fell to the floor with a thud.

My train arrived.

I didn't move. I just stood there and took the whole thing in. _It_ just laid in heap like a dying animal. A part of me said forget what I was seeing and get on the train, nothing good would come out of this. An even bigger part of me said investigate (Who am I to ignore instinct?). Even though I knew better than to get closer (after all, this was how people got murdered in slasher movies), I did anyway. I had to get a better look, I've always been more curious than cautious.

I inched up to _it_, seeing a ton blood pooling beneath _it_ when _it_ lifted _its_ head. I saw its face finally.

Oh. My. God.

_It _was Batman.


	3. Go Get 'Em Boy Wonder

_/Gotham Emergency Dispatch/_

_ALL UNITS: WE HAVE A HOSTAGE SITUATION IN PROGRESS AT ST. PHILLIP CHRISTIAN ACADEMY OF SOUTH HINKLEY. THREE GUNMEN REPORTED WITH POSSIBLE INJURIERS AND DOAs. ALL AVAILABLE UNITS PROCEED WITH CAUTION; PERPS ARE ARMED AND DANGEROUS._

* * *

><p>The bluetooth in my cowl crackled to life. "Robin," a woman's voice said.<p>

"I heard it," I replied into my throat mic, mashing the throttle of my bike to its stop. "I'm already on my way. Gimme like seven minutes."

That was Oracle who called. She was sitting at her work-station monitoring the police scanners and dispatch when the call came through. That's how we stay ahead of the police and the criminals, we monitor their calls. And, while we respond to drama breaking out around Gotham, Oracle sends us intelligence. Basically, she's the bat-help desk and the resident computer geek. Kind of like the Geek Squad with a bad attitude and a cape. If you need blueprints and schematics, need help cracking a code to a database, need the down-low on a criminal, or you're just flat-out bored while you're beating the tar out of the mob, call Oracle. That's what I do.

Before she was Oracle, she was Batgirl; a copycat vigilante out to beat down the criminal element. Somehow she found acceptance on the team. Not really sure how that happened, Batman doesn't _accept_ much of anything or anybody. She must've been a badass in a fight. That was before my time, though. Anyway, I digress. She was Batgirl until the Joker showed up to her house and put a bullet through her alter ego's spine, paralyzing her from the waist down. According to Batman, the Joker had coincidentally shot her while trying to kill her father, Commissioner Gordon. The Joker didn't realize that Barbara Gordon was secretly Batgirl. Commissioner Gordon didn't either. But that's another story.

I raced down the expressway on my motorcycle, weaving around traffic easily pushing 130-mph. Breaking the speed limit—yes I know—but Batman had very explicit rules for navigating Gotham streets:

1) Double all speed limits to spot and to shake tails.

2) Never endanger bystanders (I suppose speeding wasn't included).

3) Never joyride.

4) Never drive into an area where there aren't at least three exits.

5) Avoid areas where a vehicle can't be dumped in an emergency.

6) Never save a vehicle.

7) Never let the fuel tank fall below half.

8) Avoid law enforcement at all times.

9) Hide the vehicle when not in use.

The last two were the hardest to do, especially where the batmobile was concerned_—_not that I got to drive it often. First, that thing is a tank and, second, it has a rocket booster. And, the police are trained to spot tanks and rockets. They have a whole course dedicated to that at the academy. To me, it always seemed like Batman and I were committing a crime when we blew past the cops doing over 100-mph. But Batman always claimed that speeding wasn't a _crime_, it was an _infraction_ (that was him playing technicalities). Then I'd ask, "How about fleeing the police? Is that a crime?" And, he'd say, "Robin...focus." (That was him dodging the question; Batman did both of those a whole lot).

Nightwing on the other hand said to me one time, "You're more than welcome to get apprehended. Cops love vigilantes. I'll just pull the batmobile over. Matter of fact, hand me my license and registration out of the glove compartment." That kind of put it in perspective (Nightwing had more finesse). Whatever. In spite of my apprehension from time-to-time, Batman knew best—after all, he has been Batman for like twelve years—I just did what I was told.

A sedan full of people caught me in their headlights and stepped on the gas trying to catch up. Numerous flashes from the windows told me they were taking pictures. I didn't let it bother me, it wasn't everyday motorists saw me scream past. I was sure that a really crappy video of me, showing mostly flapping cape and a the back of my cowl, was going to pop-up on the internet, angering Batman. But whatever, chicks dig the cape and the cowl, I can't help that.

I came up fast on two eighteen-wheelers driving side-by-side blocking both lanes on the small artery. There was just enough room for me to squeeze between them. I gunned the throttle; the torque spiked and the front wheel leapt off of the ground as I rocketed toward the tight space. I got the wheel down just in time to squeeze through, leaving the paparazzi stuck behind the trucks as I made the off-ramp into South Hinkley.

Batman wouldn't have approved. He would have called me reckless and inefficient. He would have told me that my armor '_isn't optimized for resurrecting your corpse'. _Basically, saying that my armor wasn't made to save me if I got run over by a truck. Whatever, my armor wasn't made to stand-up against gunfire for too long either but Batman doesn't seem to have a problem getting shot at.

Yeah, we both wear the exact same armor, capes, gauntlets and bracers. But I'm no Batman-clone. The differences are found mostly in our cowls and utility belts. My cowl doesn't have ears like Batman's and I also don't wear my utility belt around my waist like he does. I instead wear two crisscrossed like bandoleers on my chest called riser. It much easier for me to pull out equipment and the belts act as a climbing harness. My cape, while made of the same material, has a hood that I can pull up over my cowl to enhance my camouflage. The last difference is the weapon I carry. It's a telescoping bostaff made of light-weight carbon-steel. I freaking love that thing. It collapses down to a length just a little longer than my forearm which allows me to clip it to the outside of my thigh. When I need it, I simply pop it off the clips, then I hit the unlock button. That causes the internal springs to release and the staff shoots out to full length, just about six feet. Casual look for carriage, business in an instant.

I'm pretty nasty with it, too. Nasty enough to lay waste to a group dudes without them even being aware of how badly they're getting wrecked. I don't mean to sound overconfident...but I'm that good with a staff. My main fighting instructor, Lady Shiva—an associate of Batman's from his world-touring days that he sent me to train under—taught me the use of the bo-staff extensively. She always said, 'T_he simultaneous block-strike combo will make you_ _unstoppable_.' I don't know about unstoppable, but I definitely readjust attitudes when the staff comes out.

Again, I digress.

"Can you tell me what's going down on the inside of the school?" I said into the Bluetooth as I turned onto the block that the school was situated on. Best part about throat mics is that they take the vibrations directly from your throat so the person on the other side didn't have to hear a bunch of background noise; in this case, the wind.

"Negative. There are no police on the scene yet."

"Can't you hack into the security cameras or something?"

"Negative. The security media is closed-circuit."

"Okay." The light ahead of me turned red. I kept my speed up and hurtled through it, swerving at the last second around a car that tried to _t-bone _me. I glanced over my shoulder at it. "Way to almost pancake yourself, genius," I said to myself aloud forgetting the mic was still keyed. "What's wrong?"

I wasn't in the mood for a lecture so I said, "Nothing," and moved on. "Can your eye-in-the-sky see anything?"

"Negative," she sounded like her attention was elsewhere. "The UAV is on the other side of the city supporting Batman."

"Well, what _can_ you do for me because I'm beginning to question your usefulness?"

"Provide you with moral support and social guidance, Boy Wonder."

"Yeah, because that stops bullets."

"I'm sorry. Do the Bat-scouts hand out a merit badge for whining?"

"_Oh_, Burn! Robin, out."

I closed the channel and yanked the bike off of the main artery onto a back street with a parking garage. I planned to stash the bike there. That was about as far as my planning had gotten. Not that I could've done any with so little information—but I was good at making things up as I went along. I just needed to get a look at what I was getting into, then I could decide on the best way to approach the problem. A little surveillance goes a long way. I rapidly staked out the school from the garage, it didn't reveal much. So I moved on to a nearby building to see if I could get a better look.

_ St. Phillip Christian Academy of South Hinkley _was in a one of Gotham's largest and oldest cathedrals. My sophomore history teacher said that it was one of Gotham's defining landmarks. If you ask me, it looked like the kind of maximum security prison that Frankenstein's monster would lock up the things that scared it. The cathedral's huge spires, small windows, hulking doors, and rotting buttresses (Yeah, buttresses. I said it. I have a thing for architecture, don't judge me.) added to its menace. Honestly, it reminded me of Arkham Asylum and that place gives me the creeps.

Anyway, I hadn't even gotten halfway around the building when I caught a glimpse of some drama unfolding in the windows of the library. I could see single gunman and ten, or so, hostages hiding under desks and behind book shelves and doors. I banked on there being more hostages but ten was all that was visible from my position.

I was content to sit there a moment and watch; being over-aggressive could easily put me at a disadvantage. I wanted to see what the gunman was playing at and also to see if he came with friends—most especially if he came with friends. I'd hate to crash the party and be surrounded by guns that I wasn't prepared to deal with, armor notwithstanding.

The gunman dragged a hostage, a barefooted girl dressed in blue, from beneath a desk by the back of her prom dress. He screamed something at her and put the gun to her back.

I froze.

There was a flash.

Every visible hostage flinched at the gunshot.

Things just got real! Screw surveillance, I had to do something! Time to crash the party!

I was going in without any real intelligence but he'd kill more people if I waited any longer. When in doubt, break bones.

I heard Batman's voice in mind, _Leap into a fight headlong and you can take on four maybe five criminals at time. Leap into one with the element of surprise and you can take on twenty. But, you have to have a plan—at least a quick one. Surprise is a limited weapon and is only useful with a plan. _Batman also told me that plans are only good up until bullets started flying. I think those statements contradict one-another. But, I'm just an eighteen year-old, what do I know?

So, quick plan: Signature bat-entry through the window. Take out _everybody_. I'd make up the rest later. Ready? Break! I shuffled up to the edge and readied for the jump.

The only way I can describe the decision to dive from a building is to compare it to what happens in a football game the moment the Center hikes the ball to the Quarterback. Everything is choreographed for the first few steps. After that, chance takes over and you just pray for the best.

The first time Nightwing told me I was going to jump off of a building, I said he was a few bats short of a belfry (I know that's cliché but, for real, that's the best way to explain it. Think about it: who _goes_ into a belfry to count bats?) He told me that the most important part of being a vigilante was the use of theatrics. I guess the armor and deep voice wasn't enough.

Nightwing had been an acrobat and a trapeze artist long before he became Robin. Did I forget to mention that? Yeah, Nightwing was the first Robin. I'm the third. Jason was the second but that's another story—a tragic one—and none of my business.

So, Nightwing taught me the cadences that his family used during performances. He said that cadences help get rid of the anxiety of jumping; mostly by taking the mind off of the fact that you'd fall to your death if things didn't work out.

Nightwing hadn't steered me wrong, the cadence definitely made me forget that I was out of my mind for jumping off of a building for a half of a second.

I took a few steps back and dug-into the ledge with my back foot. The springs of the support-struts on my armored boots tightened to give me more jump when I hit my _go _button. Then I quickly estimated the distance from the ledge to the window closest to the gunman: I was four-stories higher and maybe thirty yards. I could make that jump with twenty yards to spare.

My mind focused. Everything got quiet except for the thump of my pulse in my ears. The _center _snapped the ball. I did the cadence. One step, two steps, three—

Hold breath!

Jump!

Open cape!

I squeezed my muscles preparing for the opening shock. The cape caught the air and gravity tried to sling me like a rag doll beneath the canopy. I resisted it.

The wind was blowing hellaciously through the wind-tunnel that buildings created along the backstreet. I wrestled against the turbulence trying to stay on course. I wasn't having any luck though. I was going to smash through a window about five yards left. That was going to put more distance between me and the gunman than I had anticipated. Not a good-look, Robin. Not a good-look. Never mind that, though. I'd just do what I do best: improvise.

The window rushed at me. I squeezed my back teeth together. I don't remember hearing or feeling the window shatter. Everything became a blur right up until...

I hit floor, shoulder first. The shoulder plate and a combat roll soaked up the impact and the momentum rolled me onto a knee. Here was where the improvisation came in. Coming out of the tuck, I pulled my bo-staff from its clips and hit the unlock button. It sprang to life just as I came level. I had just enough time to register which blur was the gunman then I beamed the staff like a javelin. I came to an abrupt—and slightly painful—halt as I smacked into a bookshelf. The staff rocketed over the desks and speared the gunman square in the mouth. Blood and teeth shot out in an arc. His hands went immediately to his face trying to hold the rest of them in.

The fog cleared. Everything suddenly made sense. He was Asian, smaller than me, and dressed in black and grey. There was a desk and a body between us—in that order. There was a stanchion to his left, the windows were to the right, a bookshelf was against my face, and his gun and my staff were on the ground.

I jumped to my feet and bolted toward him, leapfrogging the width of the desk feet first. My hands made contact with surface, after my feet cleared it, keeping the rest of my body airborne. I landed, and in two strides left the ground again, pulling my arms in tight and wheeling my leg around my body. My boot hammered him in his chest just below his chin. He flew through the air several feet and hit the ground harder than a quadriplegic in ski-jump contest. I'm sure all the hostages felt the aftershock of him hitting the floor.

I ran up on him, flung my cape out of my way, and snatched up his ankle, dragging him towards the stanchion. He started begging for his life. It sounded like he had marbles in his mouth. Then I felt him tug on my cape.

I squeezed my back teeth together. There are two things you just don't do. Number one is you don't wear a Metropolis Monarchs jersey to a Gotham Knights game. And, number two is you don't tug on Robin's cape—ever.

And, why was he still conscious anyway!

I slung his leg out of my way, cocked my arm above my head, and dove at him, slamming my fist against his left cheekbone. He went on a first-class trip to _La-la Land._ That was a ground-and-pound technique leftover from my MMA days.

I righted myself and dragged him the rest of the way to the stanchion, forced him into a u-shape around its base, and bound his hands and feet around the pole with an industrial set of zip-ties pulled from my utility belt risers. Then, I spun sharply—my cape flared like a bat's wings—and bolted over to the girl whom the gunman had just shot. She was lying face down in a pool of blood breathing heavily.

"Hey," I said dropping to my knees beside her. The gunshot wound was to the left of her spine, just below her shoulder blade, and bleeding everywhere. "You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be just fine."

"Please don't let me die," she whispered.

There was instantly a lump in my throat, "You're not gonna die. You're gonna be just fine. I just need to roll you over okay?" I opened the pouch with my medical supplies and pressed gauze to the wound. She winced at the pain. Just then I became aware of other hostages started coming out of their hiding places. Their faces were gray and bloodless. I pushed the lump down so I talk with a deep voice, "Everything's okay. I'm here to help. I won't hurt you."

I rolled the girl over and my heart practically stopped. The exit wound was at the very base of her ribs and half the size of my palm. The wound looked like ground beef.

"Please," she let out a fleeting moan. "I don't wanna die."

My eyes welled with tears. I didn't know what to say. My stomach was in knots. I should have gotten there faster. The other hostages just stood there looking at me hunched over their dying friend. Her breathing was getting shallow.

"Robin: Oracle."

I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to untie my stomach.

"Robin: Oracle. Do you copy?"

"I...I'm here," I said just above a whisper.

"Have you made contact?"

"I need help. The bullet wound is huge. There's blood everywhere."

"Who's shot, Robin? Are you shot?" Oracle's voice was intense.

I didn't answer. The emptiness in the girl's eyes was chilling. And, every time I looked at her gunshot wound, my veins ran cold. I saw dead bodies often in the time that I had been teamed with Batman but I had never watched anybody die. I had never watched them breathe their last breath.

"Robin, goddammit, answer me! Who's shot? Are you shot?"

The pitch of her voice anchored me for a second. "No."

"Okay. What's going on?"

"He shot a girl. She's hurt really bad."

"How bad?"

"I don't think she's gonna make it."

"Have you taken down the gunmen?"

"Only one." I looked back at the Asian kid, he was still unconscious and hog-tied to the stanchion. "There may be more."

"I need you to find the others. The police are just beginning to mobilize. It's going to be a little bit before they're on the scene."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Suddenly, I noticed all the blood. I grabbed up a corner of my cape and pressed it to the exit wound with one hand and fumbled through the pockets of my utility risers suddenly forgetting which one was my medical kit. She didn't wince at any pain this time. It was as if she wasn't there anymore. I couldn't let her die—not here.

"No, I can't. She'll die if I leave her."

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for in my kit. Maybe a knife to cut out the slug. Maybe some cable to stitch her wounds. I dumped it out onto the floor and shuffled through everything: band-aids, gauze, smelling salts, ointments, and morphine.

"Robin, you're not a surgeon. You've done what you can for her. You have to stop those gunmen or the whole school is going to be filled with dying girls."

"Well, call an ambulance or something!"

"I already have. It's gonna take them some time to get there. In the meantime, I need you to find the rest of the gunmen or I'm gonna be calling the coroner to help with all the bodies instead."

"Where the hell are Batman and Nightwing?"

"This isn't the only situation going on. You're on your own right now, kid. Let's get moving."

"Am I just supposed to let her die?" I was loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Robin, I understand this is difficult but you can't let your own damage paralyze you. Everyone in that school needs you, not just the girl in front of you. They're counting on you to do what no one else can." Oracle's voice became instantly stern, "You have to make a utilitarian decision: Her or them."

I suddenly heard Batman's voice in the back of my mind, '_You have to be prepared to make utilitarian decisions, Robin. You have to be prepared to accept the fact that you won't be able to save everyone but that you can maximize the preservation of life if you make the right decisions. Every death you're unable to prevent will haunt you later but at least you were able to save some. That is the burden that we take on. It's what defines us—separates us.' _Apparently, he said the same thing to Oracle once upon a time.

The girl's eyes were glassy and her chest barely moved with each breath. The pool of blood surrounded both of us; my cape was soaked with it. It made me sick to my stomach.

"Come on, Boy Wonder, pull yourself together and do what you do best. I need you to take the fight to those derelicts." Oracle's voice was reassuring.

The girl just stared at me, not moving now—not breathing.

"I don't know if I can," I said.

"Yes, you can. Nightwing and Batman wouldn't have chosen you to be Robin if you couldn't. They chose you because you have the steel to stand up against the odds even when the odds are oddly stacked against you."

She was right. I couldn't let these people down. And, that would happen if I didn't get a grip. I couldn't let my own damage stop me, like Oracle said. I needed to think my way through the problem: I had to track down the gunmen and these people needed medical attention while I did that.

I scanned the mass of hostages that had come out of hiding. Somebody here had to have some medical training. It was just a matter of finding out whom.

"Who here knows first aid?" my voice boomed deeply through the synthesizer.

No one answered. They were all in shock, no doubt.

"C'mon! One of you here has to be a lifeguard."

Still nothing.

"Snap out of it!" my voice echoed off the stone walls, the volume of the synthesizer peaking.

Two boys dressed in tuxedos raised trembling hands.

"You two," I pointed at both of them with two fingers of one hand. "How many people are in here?"

One of them replied, "Like twenty."

"I have to go find the punks that did this. I need you two to check-out everyone her and make sure they're okay. Can you do that?"

They nodded distantly.

I closed the girl's eyes.


	4. Sidekickery

I crept through the darkness of the school's stone hallways, pressing towards the thump of the bass. I checked every classroom along the way for occupants but found none. My mind was racing; my head wasn't in the game like it was supposed to be—Batman would have been disappointed—but watching that girl die was really messing with me. I mean, don't get it twisted, death was something I dealt with often on this team—hell, death is something you deal with often in Gotham City period—but I never watched anybody die in front of me. I felt like...dammit I didn't know how I felt about it. I just felt.

The scene in the library was a blur that was becoming clearer as it replayed in my mind over and over the deeper I got into the catacomb-like building. First, I saw the flash of the gunshot, then the rush of the window, followed by the shattering of the glass, the tumbling of the world as I rolled to my feet, the towering book shelves, the overhead lights, the gunman, and the painful rictus on the girl's face.

With each replay, too, my mind hovered around her face longer, revealing more and more detail. Her face was ghost white and twisted with pain, her eyes where empty and glossed over, her mascara stretched from eyes to ears, and the hole on the side of her prom dress was gurgling blood. She didn't come dressed for the prom; she came dressed for her own funeral.

My stomach was turning over. I felt like I needed to puke. I shook my head trying to clear my mind of it. The padding on the inside of my cowl rubbed against my temples giving me something immediate to focus on.

What I should have been focusing on was being stealthy but I was totally off my game. Like an amateur, I turned a corner without so much of a thought as to what could be waiting on the other side. And, sure enough, I came face-to-face with Gotham City Police Officer.

We locked eyes for moment. His widening; mine furrowing. He stopped breathing; I exhaled through my nose. Suddenly, it registered in his mind what he was seeing: big, shadowy, and _wanted_ by the GCPD and he immediately raised his gun. I didn't give him time to get a bead on me; I wrapped myself in my cape to protect against stray shots and whipped back around the corner.

"Freeze!" the cop screamed after he cracked off two shots. They ricocheted off of the stone.

I _so_ knew better than that. I knew better than to be so preoccupied with one messed-up situation that I couldn't focus on the rest of the messed-up things that were going to happen. I knew that I needed to be compartmentalizing; and, nearly getting slotted by flighty Gotham Cops is what happens when you don't. Good thing Batman wasn't here, I'd have never heard the end of it. I could hear him in my head:

_Robin, that was reckless. _

_Robin, you could've gotten us both killed. _

_Robin, he had a gun. _

_Robin—Robin—Robin._

I just hated the way he said my name when he was being all self-righteous and stating the obvious (Jeez...Robin, get it together)

The cop was going to come looking for me, so I decided that I would beat myself up over it later. I sank into the shadows between two rows of lockers, pulling my hood on over the cowl and using my cape to camouflage my silhouette. I could hear his footsteps over the bass—they were all over the place and without method. He was a rookie.

Did I just notice the small things?

I did! Finally, I was in my right mind! And, since I had gotten it together, I remembered that I didn't know how many total gunmen were in the building or even what they looked like. Just that they were carrying guns. The cop was carrying a gun and Batman had taken down crooked cops in the past, so that meant that the cop was a suspect. And, there was only one way to rule him otherwise…

I drew my micro-frame nightvision from a utility riser and slid it underneath the hood and over my cowl. The dark hallway instantly became hazy green and I was finally able to get a good look at the cop. He came around the corner a complete mess: breathing heavy, weapon-hand trembling, and fumbling for his radio.

"Dispatch, this unit 5776," he aspirated into the microphone, "on-scene at the St. Phillip Christian Academy of South Hinkley. I need back-up. I need SWAT immediately! The vigilante's here! I repeat: the vigilante's here!"

Wow, this guy was green—real green—and a little pudgy. Way too much video gaming and pizza in his spare time.

"Unit 5776, confirm that." The dispatcher's voice was uncertain. "Did you say the Batman is on-site?"

"Yes!" the cop screeched. "I mean affirmative! The Batman's on-site?"

The Batman? Really?! We don't even look the same!

"Is the Batman responsible for the action at the site, Unit 5776?"

"Yes!—Well, I'm not sure. I—I mean I just entered the premises." Then there was silence. "Dispatch, did you copy?"

The cop was now standing at the mouth of the hallway with his gun trained downrange. I was dug-in about two-and-a-half-of-body-lengths to his left and out of his line-of-fire.

"Unit 5776, standby."

"What? Standby? I just came face-to-face with the vigilante!"

"Unit 5776," a distinctly different and veteran voice—that sounded a lot like Commissioner Gordon (Not that I got much face-time with him since Batman had strict rules about who got to communicate with the police)—came over the radio, "you are to maintain your distance from the Batman. He is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. I repeat: Do _not_ engage the vigilante. Return to your vehicle and wait for SWAT."

"What about the hostages?"

Okay, it was safe to say that this rookie cop wasn't one of the gunmen and that Gordon was holding off his trigger-happy fire-teams as long as he could to let me do what I needed to do.

"You are ordered to return to your vehicle and wait for SWAT. Contain the violence within the building. Do you understand?"

"Unit 5776 copies. Over and out," grumbled into the mic. He didn't leave though, instead he lingered at the mouth of the hallway. I lurked in my corner waiting for him to make a move. Hopefully, he'd make the right one and leave like the commissioner told him to.

"Batman!" he yelled into the darkness. "Y-you're under arrest!"

Sigh—wrong move.

"Batman!" There he went with that Batman-crap again. He crept forward two steps. "Do you hear me? Come out with your hands up! You're under arrest!"

"For what?" my synthesized whisper echoed around the hallway.

He hesitated, searching for the voice's origin. "For taking and executing hostages! Come out with your hands up or I'll shoot."

Silence filled the hallway again. Only his breathing and the thump of the bass could be heard.

"B-Batman?"

I didn't answer.

After about fifteen seconds of pep-talking himself, the rookie started down the hallway in my direction. Every footstep was apprehensive, every breath labored.

I noticed his feet were leaving footprints on the stone floor as if he had walked through a puddle. It wasn't raining, and, even if it had been, we were three floors up, the soles of his shoes would have dried by now. I looked past him and saw more foot prints tracking away from the bathroom on the other side of the apex.

Interesting…

Once he came in line with me, I whipped a shuriken across the width of the hallway, slamming it hard against the lockers. The rookie jumped out of his skin and fired wildly in the direction of the noise. His slugs crashed into the metal doors of the lockers in nanoseconds of starlight.

I leapt from my hiding place and rushed him, grabbing hold of his gun-arm with one hand and pressing the fingers of my other into a pressure-point at the base of his neck; he collapsed to the floor dropping the gun. I jerked his former-gun arm and torqued his shoulder into an unnatural position, using my free hand to keep it in place.

"Cut it out," I whispered. "You're gonna hurt somebody."

The rookie shrieked and begged for his life. After about fifteen seconds—hoping that he'd just stop—I jostled his shoulder to remind him that I could break it if I so much as got the hiccups. "Stop screaming and I'll let you go."

He did. So—I did. I let him flop onto the ground fully as I scanned the footprints in the hallway.

The initial start began to drain from his face but he watched me cautiously with untrusting eyes. I paid them no mind, I was used to it. Nobody ever looked at me—Robin—with trusting eyes; that was downside of being a vigilante.

I wiped my finger through the footprint near his head, rubbing the fluid between my gloved-fingers and smelling it. The fluid was sticky and had a metallic smell—blood.

"Who—who are you?" the rookie stammered, finally catching enough breath to speak.

"Not Batman," I replied looking him in the eye. Although, I had stone expression like Batman, I'm sure the micro-frames I had strapped to my head lessened the effect. Micro-frames weren't much bigger than sunglasses but unless you were a retard you couldn't mistake them.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I was investigating the footprints. I needed to figure out where they were coming from and where they were going. From my position over top of the rookie, it looked like the footprints were coming from the bathroom. That was going to be my first stop on my continued search for the gunmen. Problem was, I couldn't just leave this clown out here to be prey, plus he'd give me away if someone came down the hall. So a unanimous decision was made to make him my honorary sidekick for this part of the investigation and _drag_ him along.

I scooped up his sidearm, hooked my fingers underneath the bottom of his body armor, jumped up, and dragged him as quickly as I could towards the bathroom—about fifteen feet. He bucked and hollered like a helpless rider on a rogue horse. I was half-tempted to kick him in the head.

_Tim, this is your conscience: Don't do that._

I didn't.

I stormed through the door into pitch-black bathroom without regard for what was inside, yanking the rookie over the lip of the doorframe and giving him one last heave before letting go. He slid another two feet before coming to a halt just past the privacy wall. I slithered up to the edge and prepped to peer in; I wanted to give it a few seconds to make sure I wasn't going to become the subject of a shootout. My cape parked itself on top of the rookie's face. He swatted it like a swarm of annoying insects.

The first thing to hit me was the smell, it was acidic but not unbearably so. The next thing was the taste of iron in the air—the hair on my neck stood up. I gulped down a mouthful of breath and then inched one eye around the corner. What I saw instantly brought back the vision of the girl dying on the library floor. I drew back, closed my eyes, and shook my head. I didn't have any more time for grief, not now. The vision went away. I could grieve when I was finished here. I put Tim away and let Robin takeover again.

I peered around wall with both eyes this time and stared momentarily at pile of teenagers stacked waist-high. There was a river blood and footprints between them and the wall…and something _else_. The footprints that I followed in, led out from there to the door. I stood up, sank beneath my cape, and rounded the corner into the bathroom proper.

"Hey," said the rookie, "where are you going?"

"You're trying to arrest at the wrong guy," I growled, flipping on a flashlight that I pulled from my riser, kneeling over _what_ I saw, picking _it_ up, regarding _it_ for a moment, stuffing _it_ my riser, and then standing again. My micro-frames automatically dimmed to prevent light-damage from the flashlight. "Come have a look."

I heard the rookie shuffle to his feet and come in behind me. Then I heard his breathing stop, then he coughed, wretched, and puked—twice. I did the same thing the first time I saw massacre. I let him finish while I searched for clues: Shell casings, handprints, anything I could find. I pulled my staff from its clips, hit the release, and used it to dig through the pile. The bodies were riddled with bullet holes but each had one deliberate gunshot to the head. They were executed in here, that's why the footprints led away.

"Omigod," said the rookie. "They're all dead."

"Yup," I sighed.

"What'd you do?"

My head whipped around and a sneer stretched across my face. "Dude, for real? Do I _look_ like I killed these people?"

"I—uh," he mumbled with his mouth wide open. Honestly, he'd have drooled on himself if wasn't careful.

I slammed the end of my staff against the tile; it echoed like a church bell. "How were these people killed?"

"They were shot," he replied dubiously.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"I'm telling you."

I nodded. "They _were_ shot. The only gun I have on me is yours. So unless I'm a magician and somehow shot them with your gun while it was in your hands as you meandered through this mausoleum, I didn't shoot them. Someone else did. I'm trying to find that someone. I've already taken down one in the library but there are more."

"So you didn't shoot them?"

"How in the Samhain Hell would I have shot them?" I whispered sharply as I flung both arms to my sides; the staff crooned as it scraped across the floor, my cape flapped open revealing my armor, and circle of light from the flashlight arced around the bathroom. "I should punch you in the eye socket for even suggesting that! Matter fact, you're lucky to even be conscience. I could have laid you out in the passage."

The rookie's face was still blank. He must've still been in shock but I didn't have time for it. The GCPD either hired criminals or retards. And, since I was in the process of taking down criminals, I didn't have time for retards. These bodies weren't going to go anywhere so it was time to move on. I could come back and look for more clues later.

I dropped my arms and keyed the throat mic. "Oracle, I've got seven bodies in a bathroom."

"What?" the rookie asked.

I shined the flashlight into his right eye to shut him up. "I'm not talking to you." He reeled back blinking his eyes.

The Bluetooth in my cowl came alive. "I'm aware. The gunmen are streaming live to the internet."

"They're what?"

"They're streaming live."

"Shut. Up."

"I'm sending the URL to your tablet. Standby."

I pulled it out and keyed the message application. In the inbox was a message with an attachment that lead to a video that the gunmen had uploaded to the internet. I navigated to the video via the link and allowed it to buffer. Then a massacre played in HD in all its macabre glory: Seven students were herded into the bathroom. They huddled together crying, begging. The gunmen cursed them, taunted them, and spat on them. When the gunmen had reached a fever-pitch, they began opening fire; the video feed shook just barely out of sync of the gunfire.

The scene wasn't quick, they didn't die in a hail of gunfire like people do in the movies. Even at pointblank range, the first gunshot only hit one of the students in the shoulder causing the hysterics to intensify. The rate of fire increased and the students clawed at each other and shrieked, dying not long after. When the last student toppled to the floor, the gunmen took deliberate shots at the students' heads, laughing. It was sickening. All two minutes and thirteen seconds of it.

The rookie had climbed to his feet by now and was looking at me. I didn't pay him any attention. I restarted the feed to look for leads.

Mental notes:

Two white males; age 16-17; average size; one dirty blonde, the other brunette; dressed in non-descript trench coats and denim.

The two males were the only shooters present at the time of the killing. One would film, while the other would act. Then they would switch.

They weren't heavily armed. Their weapons were low caliber submachine guns and a .38 revolver.

Based on the layout, this was the same location that the murders were carried out.

The time-stamp indicated that this occurred thirty minutes ago.

The rookie leaned in to see what I was watching. I turned my head to meet his wandering eyes. He noticed me glaring at him, my face hardening. He got the message and trained his attention elsewhere.

There was another link at the same site. More of the same, really: Students murdered execution style. Same two shooters. Same weapons. And, according to the time stamp, the video was more recent, filmed maybe ten minutes ago. Judging by the look of the background, I'd place them in the cafeteria at the site of the dance, proper.

"Oracle, I need floor plans on this building. Help me out here."

"Not gonna happen, Boy Wonder. That building is 300 years old. No blueprints."

"You're not helping..."

"Tell me what you're looking for."

"The cafeteria."

"What floor are you on?"

"Third-ish."

"Go down two floors. Cafeterias have kitchens and kitchens have loading bays. Loading bays need street access."

"I've got that much; I intended to follow the music to the cafeteria. I'm just looking for the best access points."

"You're on your own there."

"Figures. Robin, out." I stuffed my tablet into its container and started for the door. I turned off my flashlight.

"Hey!" the rookie yelped before turning on his own flashlight. "You could've warned me first."

I stood with the door slightly open scanning the hallway. I learned my lesson earlier about getting tunnel-vision and rushing around corners. The rookie walked up behind me and had sense enough to douse his light so that he didn't give away our position. At least I didn't have to tell him. Maybe he wasn't as retarded as I thought.

"I have to move-on." I said slipping through the door into the darkness of the hallway.


	5. Bigger Fireworks

"So, who are you exactly?" the cop whispered as he followed me down the stairs towards the first floor. We had managed to push out of the bathroom, make it to the far-end of the stone hallway, and into the stairwell without getting ourselves shot…which was positive. The darkness was a bit tricky—for my sidekick—be we managed with the intermittent moonlight that shined in through high-slung windows in the buttresses (There's that word again); the same couldn't be said for the stairs.

"Not Batman," I affirmed as I switched on flashlight to aid him. I kept a suspicious eye over the railing for an ambush. Then my head snapped back when I felt something yank me from behind nearly pulling me down onto the steps; the force caused my hood to fall way. I grunted—loudly—like an unsuspecting dog reaching the end of its leash. Once I was sure that I had my balance, I turned slowly and just in time to see the ashamed expression on the rookie's face as he cautiously lifted his foot up and drew it away from my cape. I raised an exacting finger level with his nose, my scowl was unmistaken.

"I—I'm sorry—" he tried to get out but I cut him off.

I wanted desperately to choke him but instead I said, "Not a _word_ out of you." He conceded with a vigorous nod and I continued my descent, drawing the hood back up over my cowl. Then I head Batman in the back of my head again:

_Robin, keep your distance. If you step on my cape while you follow me, you'll give both of us away. We need to be close enough to support each other but no so close that we become a hindrance to one another…_

Dammit, Batman! Get out of my head!

"If you're not Batman, then who are you?"

I didn't look at him. "I'm Robin."

"What kind of name is Robin?"

"I didn't come up with it."

"Do you work for the Batman?"

"Something like that."

"Is he coming?"

"Batman doesn't like parties."

"How long have you been doing—"

"Oh, for crying out loud." I felt a sudden urge to punch him again and I spun around.

_Tim, this is your conscience. Don't do it. Don't punch him in the face._

I resisted and said, "Are we really gonna do this, now? I'm a bit busy."

"I was—"

"Look—my name's Robin. I'm named after my uncle's third cousin's dead sister-in-law's great dane who just happens to be the Ghost of Christmas Past. I'm not sure what that makes me…maybe something between POTUS and Tinker Bell. I also like long walks on the beach, Chi Tea, leprechaun outfits, and bling-covered cellphones. You satisfied?"

"So you're not responsible for this?"

_Tim, this is your conscience again. I've changed my mind, sock him one good time—once will be okay. Just make sure you send him back to the precinct with the mother-of-all-black-eyes. _

"I _thought_ we established that already?"

The rookie shrugged. "This just seems like your M.O."

"You're _really_ doing too much right now."

"It's not your M.O?"

"Okay, detective," I said folding my arms across my chest, "I'll play your stupid little game: What exactly is my M.O. then?"

"After those guys showed up dead on the Westside slayed by the Bat, this whole situation seemed like your M.O."

"Killing's not my M.O. and it's not Batman's, either. You're talking about the Man-Bat slayings."

His face pruned. "Man-Bat? Batman? What's the difference?"

"Good cop-work is the difference. _Good_ cop-work would tell you the M.O. is different. Not-so-good cop-work would tell you that M.O. was the same."

"We figured Batman had gone off the deep-end."

"You all figured wrong."

"Witnesses claimed they saw a giant bat—"

"And so did you when you called dispatch, but you don't see ears on top of my head, do you?" His look was uncertain. My brow furrowed from frustration. "Man-Bat's a copycat with a chip-on-his-shoulder. His name is Jean-Paul Valley. He used to be Army Special Forces but turned to religious fanaticism after the war. Something about an Order of St. Dumas and an Archangel named Azrael. That's not the same M.O. as Batman. But, I'm sure you already knew all that."

"How do you know all this?"

"Good cop-work. Why don't you run along and take that information back to the station and get yourself a promotion."

"This isn't about promotion."

"Sure it's not." My mouth became a thin line. "I know how the GCPD operates."

"I'm not here for a promotion. I'm here to protect and serve."

"Oh, no doubt."

"I'm serious." He sounded genuinely hurt.

_Tim, this is your conscience, can we forget this guy and move-on? You're IQ is dropping by the second._

I cocked my head beneath the hood. "Weren't you suppose to remain clear of the vigilante?" Then I turned, shuffled down the rest of the steps, and I darted to the door of the first-floor landing. Once I was sure that it was clear, I pushed deeper into the school, the bass becoming more distinct. The video had showed that the gunmen had the hostages lined up along a wall with a double door in the background. Most cafeterias had multiple entrances, so I'd just need to figure out which door they were nearest and work out how I was going to get in with getting anyone—or myself—killed in the process.

The rookie wasn't far behind me. He had finally stopped asking me stupid questions and wasn't following so close that he was stepping on my cape anymore. He was lucky that I didn't hurt him. He was even luckier that I wasn't Batman; he isn't as forgiving as I am and would've probably knocked the rookie unconscious for cramping his style.

I could see an entrance to the cafeteria not too far up the dark hallway. Strobe lights lit-up the passage through the small window of each door. I slithered up to them and peered through. Sure enough, there were probably thirty-five hostages lined-up abreast and kneeling along the wall immediately left and a number of bodies sprawled on the ground in pools of blood—like those in the bathroom, gunshot victims I was too late to save. Several more hostages were huddled in a circle near the center of the floor but not quite underneath a chandelier. Two gunmen circled them in a frenzy.

Staying below the windows, I grabbed the door handle and stealthily pulled a door open. There was a faint change of air pressure and the low bass was suddenly accompanied by rhythm and vocals. The door jammed to a stop with just enough room to fit my arm through; they were chained shut. I was going to have to cut the chain if I was to get in—or find another way. I looked over my shoulder at the rookie who caught up to me.

"Yo," I said, "the door's chained shut. We gotta improvise." I pulled his gun from my riser and handed it to him handle-first and then snatched the micro-frames off of my cowl and stowed them. "I can see the gunmen from here, we can stop them here."

He turned the gun over in his hand and then trained it one of the gunmen through the glass. "I can hit him from here."

I quickly found my feet bumping his wrists with my shoulder, setting him off target. "Hasn't there been enough bloodshed for one day?"

"What're we supposed to do?" His eyes filled with agitation. "Just sit here while they kill the rest of the hostages? If we don't kill them, they'll kill everyone here."

"Even criminals have families…"

"That's not gonna stop them."

"No, but it leaves us to do the right thing. Trust me, I can stop them."

He had no real reason to trust me, especially with all the gossip that floated around Gotham about vigilantes. There was conflict in his eyes. The situation was desperate and he felt it needed to take desperate measures. In principle, it wasn't a measure any less desperate than getting dressed up like a bat and jumping off rooftops. But, playing vigilante was different than playing God. Killing the gunmen would solve nothing, it would just add two additional body-bags to be hauled out of here in the end. If I let the rookie kill the gunmen, then he would be no better than them. He gave-in, though, and lowered his gun, "What're we gonna do?"

I went under my right arm and pulled det-cord and a detonator from the riser, "Awright, here's the plan: I'm gonna set this heat-charge on the chain. Then I'm gonna go up high and look for a place to set a diversion. When the diversion goes off you activate the detonator and cut the chain. I'll handle the gunmen, you evacuate the hostages." I reached through opening and began coiling the cord around the chain-link's weld—the weakest point.

"What kinda diversion?"

"Not sure yet. I'll figure it when get up there." I pointed at the chain repeatedly saying, "When you set this off, get your face outta the way. It's gonna burn at a stupid hot temperature and puke sparks all over the place. You're no good to anyone if you come outta this burnt up like Harvey Dent."

"Noted," he said as I turned to leave. He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder, "Real quick…"

"Make it quick…"

"How're they gonna miss the firework display when I set it off?"

I shot him a devilish grin. "I'm gonna set-off _bigger_ fireworks."


	6. Personal Damage

I climbed onto a buttress (And again) and leapt between overhangs until I was nearly directly above the scene. From there I could accurately count the hostages, forty-four alive and eleven dead. Most of the living were against the wall near the door. About five, that were being terrorized, were near the gunmen, close to the chandelier. The dead littered the floor.

The heat-charge was going to make a loud hissing sound while it cut through the chain link. If I made an even louder _boom_, I'd be able to drown it out. The chandelier would do. It was big and obnoxious—so much so that I was able stand on it with little problem—and would make one hell of a scene if it miraculously fell from the sky. I moved as delicately and quickly as I could across the rafters towards it and then made the distance between it and a buttress (Boom). The metal chandelier rocked back-and-forth like a giant tire swing when I landed on its basin, grabbing hold of the chain for support. The stereo system covered the noise.

I pulled the glyceryte dispenser from my riser and quickly drew a circle with it around the chain. Glyceryte—I call it fun foam—is a glue-like mix of chemicals that sticks to a surface and jells into thick foam once it contacts air. Best of all, fun-foam packs a pretty good explosion when connected to a charge; a good enough explosion to blow right through the chandelier's chain. With any luck, I wouldn't blow _my_ face off in the process.

I turned away, covering up with my cape, and pressed the charge into the foam. It primed for two seconds then there was thunder; the floor rushed up at me. I opened my cape and slowed myself, allowing the chandelier to out-pace me. It smashed into the floor scattering the gunmen and the hostages, scaring them all half to death. I landed a half of second later, my ears ringing from the blast.

Blondie went right in the direction of the kitchen; the brunette went left in the direction of a hors d'oeuvre table and the door. He was the closer of the two gunmen to the exit where the rookie was hiding, making him the biggest threat; I had to take him out fast. I could see Blondie in my peripheral, which was all I needed to hit him. I flung a shuriken at him and buried it in the meat of his chest, causing him to stagger. The shuriken wasn't lethal but it definitely had to have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

I rushed the brunette, who was trying to gather himself and lift his gun to aim at me. With my staff in my left hand, I snaked off to his side and, _CRACK_! slammed my armored fist into the side of his jaw. He began to teeter. I kept up the momentum spinning on my heels, unlocking the staff, and grabbing it with both hands. It whistled through the air as it homed in on his face. _THUNK_! My staff opened a gash on his cheekbone and he crumpled. I slugged him square in the gut with my boot just as he hit the floor, sliding him about two feet. He struggled for air. I couldn't give him time to recover, so I brought my staff down on him like a sledge hammer for good measure.

I whirled around, my cape followed in an arc. "Here Blondie, Blondie, Blondie," I murmured through the voice synthesizer. Blondie answered with submachine gun fire, chopping off rounds with no control. I had to find cover.

Instinct took over and my body reacted without consulting my brain. By the time my mind caught up, I was on my side sliding beneath a table face first. My mind took the hint from my body and kicked the table onto its side. Bullets slammed into the table-top showering me with splinters. I tried to sit up but couldn't...I was hung up on my cape. Damn that thing! Right then I realized why Nightwing refused to use a cape like Batman. The cape was all-good until you were laying on it, then you pinned yourself to the ground with your own weight. I rolled onto my side and curled into a ball—a fetal position and my armor would at least offer the best protection to my vital organs—and prepped a tear gas canister.

The shooting stopped. He was probably reloading. I counted to five but he never resumed. He couldn't be reloading, it didn't take that long. Then again, he could just suck really badly (That was likely the reason he was shooting unarmed people in the first place).

I was able to peer over the table since being on my side took the weight off of the cape. Blondie was gone; there was just a pile of bullet shells where he had been standing. The coward freaking ran. Can't exactly say I was surprised nor was I exactly sure where he thought he was going to go considering he had locked himself in here. The only other way out was through the kitchen.

Suddenly two gunshots rang-out—from behind me this time. I practically jumped out of my skin. I whipped around in time to see the brunette, with his bludgeoned face, staggering towards me clutching his side. His gun dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He collapsed seconds after landing slam on his chin. Puzzled, I looked towards the door and there was the rookie in a triangular stance with his pistol still at the ready, the barrel smoking. His face was strained. I'm sure mine was too, at least a paler shade of white as the blood had drained from it—the cowl hid that, though. The rookie just saved my life. He did what he had to do. I had to let that go because Blondie was still on the run.

_Tim, this is your conscience. Since you don't seem to care, I'll ask: Are you shot_?

Good question. I hadn't felt any impact in my armor nor did I feel any pain. But that could be because I was doped up on adrenaline. I ran my glove over my armor plates looking for blood. I didn't find any…thank goodness. That was a close call. And there, I thought for sure I had hit the brunette hard enough. Note-to-self: Break all gunmen's jaws.

"Are you okay?" the rookie yelled over the music as he ran up to me.

I jumped to me feet. "I have to go find the last gunmen! Get these people outta here!"

"You didn't answer my question!"

"Don't worry about me!" I clipped my staff to my thigh. "Takes more than a couple gunshots to stretch me out!"

I jogged towards the kitchen, grabbing handfuls of my cape to keep it from dragging through the puddles of blood as I zigged-zaggged through the field of bodies. Not that it made a difference by then, I was just being a primadona.

Blondie was bleeding steadily, dripping a trail that lead into the back of the kitchen. Batman told me the best way to track a murderer was to follow the blood trail; most murderers couldn't resist killing again, usually out of pride. This blood trail was less metaphorical but served the same purpose. His blood would make it difficult for him to hide from me, although I expected that he was trying to escape rather than hide. If he was feeling extra stupid, thinking hiding was going to work, I'd just follow his trail and then smoke him out of his hidey-hole.

Alright, slow your roll, Robin. Don't get too cocky, even the weakest criminals can be lethal. You nearly got your head taken off all of a two minutes ago by a gunmen you thought you had laid-out. Blondie was still armed, after all, and I didn't need to try my armor against his gun. I decided to just play it smart, turn the lights out, and take it slow. Besides, I liked working in the dark. Darkness made me feel good (Wow, that sounded morbid. Understand that I'm just nocturnal. Sure, the name Robin and the word _nocturnal_ don't really go together but, like I said earlier, I didn't give myself that name). All the lights in the kitchen winked-out with a throw of the switch.

"Robin: Oracle."

"Go," I replied just below a whisper.

"Give me an update."

"I'm cornering the last rat. It could get nasty."

"Okay, I'm gonna stay on the net to monitor you."

"Sounds like a great idea," I said checking behind some shelves and a counter—nothing, "I could use some company."

I crept past the cooking vats, watching the corners and shadows for an ambush as I followed Blondie's trail; it was highlighted by the emergency flood lights that came on once the power went off.

I came into the loading bay from the kitchen to the sound of a frantically jingling chain and the whimpers of both a madman and a girl. Blondie was trying to make a break for it through the receiving gate with what sounded like a hostage. That could make it messy if I didn't play my cards right.

I'd bury another shuriken as deep as possible into a sensitive part of his body, yank him off his feet with the grapnel launcher, and then beat him senseless. I would just have to be quick about it.

I followed the sound, slithering around the corner until I could see him. He was standing at the garage door—with his back to me and hostage at gun-point—trying desperately to open it, whining, "C'mon, you stopped thing!"

THWACK! I embedded a shuriken in his left shoulder blade. He howled. His hostage screamed too. He clawed at it wanting to pull it from the meat of his back but couldn't reach it. I readied the grapnel and raised it just as he gave up on the shuriken and turned around. My mouth went instantly dry…

As if the situation couldn't have gotten worse, I knew the hostage he was holding. It was Stephanie Brown, the girl I had met at Felix's getty a couple of years ago!

She was a disaster. Her face was mangled with terror; her mascara made stripes on her cheeks; her skin was flush; the white of her eyes were a dull orange; and, her hair was matted and her dress torn and blood-stained. She squealed every time he yanked at her hair trying to keep her still, pressing the barrel of his gun harder into the side of her head. She begged for her life.

"Don't come any closer," he barked, frothing from the mouth, "or I'll shoot her!"

My hands went up slowly as if the gun were pointed at me. I didn't will them, they did it on their own. I didn't know what to say, her expression and his emotion paralyzed me. I just stood there in the dark with my arms up trying to not to provoke him.

"I swear I'll do it. I'll blow her goddamn head off!"

I heard Lady Shiva's voice in the back of my head:

'_Show your enemy no mercy, Robin. They will show you none. They will do terrible things to you for the sole purpose of breaking your spirit. When your spirit is broken, then you are truly defeated. Break them first. Then mutilate their spirit in front of them.'_

The temperature began to rise in my body. My fingers tingled. My muscles tightened. I reached for my staff, drew it from its clips, and unlocked it; the staff slammed to its length.

"I'm not playing!" blondie howled. "I'll kill her!"

I wasn't sure how was I going to take him out without Stephanie getting shot, but I had to do something; indecision was the same as inaction. What, though?

I took a step forward.

He threatened her again, pressing the gun into her head even harder. She wailed helplessly.

_Maybe_ direct action was the right decision. _Maybe_ I could wait him out. Maybe…

I didn't know what to do. I did exactly what Batman had always told me _not_ do, I made this personal. Seeing Stephanie made it so and it was affecting my decision-making.

Then, Oracle's voice came in over the Bluetooth, "Robin, listen to me. You can't threaten him." It was like she was reading my mind. "You won't save her if you do. You have to talk to him. You have to negotiate her release."

How the hell do I do that?

"You gotta talk to him man-to-man," Oracle continued.

Blondie and I stared through each other.

"Tim Drake has gotta talk to him, not Robin. Robin has done everything he can up till now. Now, Tim Drake has to solve this."

"I…"

…didn't know if I could.

"Robin," Oracle's voice was stern like Lady Shiva's—like Batman's.

Blondie gritted his teeth and jerked Stephanie's hair. "I'm gonna count to three! And, if you haven't gone, I'm gonna pull this trigger."

_Break them and then mutilate their spirits in front of them, Robin_.

"Please, let her go," it was my voice, not the voice synthesizer. I'm sure he could hear the conflict in it.

"One!"

"What's this gonna solve?" I gave him my hands. "I'm already here. The police are on their way. This isn't gonna make it better."

"These pricks deserve this!"

"Deserves this? No—no one deserves this. No one deserves to have they're life taken. No one."

Batman didn't approve of Lady Shiva's philosophy on justice. Batman didn't believe in murder for justice.

"They took my life from me, first! They left me with no choice! They made me into this! They caused this! They ended my life a long time ago!"

"You're life isn't over. You're just a teenager. We're just teenagers. We're still young. We still have our entire lives ahead of us. But all that will end if you pull that trigger."

"They don't care about me! Why should I care about them?"

Oracle chimed-in, "Go for the root of the problem Tim."

"Who is they?" I asked. "It's just us here."

"All the haters who had something to say. All the haters that attack me and humiliate me every day! Why should I stop when they never would?"

"Because if you don't, it makes you just like them. Every life you destroy makes you more and more like them."

Batman doesn't destroy the spirit of the wicked; he protects the spirit of the downtrodden from the wicked. Batman doesn't destroy, Batman protects.

"They always talk about me. Always have something to say. They won't talk about me now, will they?" Then he screamed, "Two!"

"If you do this, they'll never stop. They'll always remember what happened here. Don't give them that power."

"They don't have power, now. I'm the one with the power!" He bared his teeth. "They're lucky I didn't kill them all!"

"Okay, maybe so. Maybe _they_ do deserve it." I inclined my head in Stephanie's direction. "But, does _she_ deserve it? Tell me what _she_ did to you? Do you even know her name?"

His expression was pensive, his eyes becoming instantly suspicious.

Batman told me that not all criminals are inherently evil and are often victims of circumstance like he and I. Sometimes, they just needed to be humanized.

I asked Stephanie, "What's your name?" I was trying to humanize her in Blondie's eyes. Her words were barely understandable through her tears but she managed to get her name out.

"Her name is Stephanie," I said to Blondie. "What'd Stephanie do?"

Blondie forgot about his countdown.

"Robin," Oracle was back, "I've ID-ed him. His name is Earl Raymond. Sophomore. Sixteen. He's had extensive counseling but no prior record."

"Earl," I said with some force, "tell me what _she_ did to you."

His lip twitched. "How—how do you know my name?"

"Earl, what did Stephanie do to you?" He didn't respond. That's fine, I could skin this cat from the other end. "Stephanie, what did you do to Earl? What'd did you do that made him so angry—so hurt?"

"I don't know," she wailed. "I didn't do anything."

"Nothing?" I collapsed my staff—_snap-clank _—and held it in my hand. "That can't be right. You had to have done something. Why else would he be so mad?"

Earl suddenly came to life again. "Shut the hell up!"

"I don't even know him. I've never seen him before at school," Stephanie replied, squeezing more tears from her eyes.

"C'mon, Earl, she doesn't even know you. How could she be responsible for anything that's happened to you when she's never seen you before?"

Earl looked to her and that back at me sharply.

"She doesn't deserve this, Earl. Are you going to kill an innocent girl?"

"That's not the point!" he screamed.

"I _don't_ understand the point, Earl. What is the point of this? Explain it to me."

"They thought they could break me. But, I'm showing them they can't."

He was beginning to frustrate me with this _they_-nonsense. "Who is _they_, Earl? Is Stephanie _they_?"

"All of them—everybody here."

"What about me? I'm here. Am I _they_? Why not shoot me, Earl?" I put both arms out to my side; my cape fell behind my shoulders, "Shoot me. I must have done something wrong to you too because I'm here. I must be _they_."

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

That was uncertainty in his voice.

"You're right. I don't." I pointed a finger at him. "You're the one with the gun. So, help me understand. Then, I can help you outta this situation."

"You can't help me!"

"You don't know that. You don't know what I've seen or done. I could be just like you, Earl."

His whole face became suspicious, not just his eyes; the grip on the gun had loosened.

"I'm nothing like them, Earl. Look at me." I grabbed my cape with both hands and stretched to either side, "Look at the way I'm dressed. I'm nothing like them. Please, just put the gun down. Please."

He watched me silently for a moment, searching me deeply with eyes, looking to see if we truly had kinship or I was a tormentor in disguise. I had him.

"No." Well—I thought I did. "I'm not going to let them treat me like that no more," he said, his wounds opening again. "I won't!"

"I won't let them either, Earl. But you gotta let Stephanie go."

"No!"

"Earl, I won't hurt you. I won't let anybody hurt you. I can promise you that. But I can't help if you won't put down the gun."

"Fuck you!" he screamed, his face became hateful and he pressed the gun back into her head. "Fuck her! Fuck all of them!" I saw his hand flex and my lungs caught fire.

I couldn't watch Stephanie be murdered like I watched the girl in library. "No, no, no! Wait, Earl!"

He did. The gun never went off. Stephanie was still screaming, though. She wasn't dead, there was still a chance to talk him down.

"I know this was a mistake. We all make mistakes. You didn't mean for this to go down the way it did. And now, you feel like there's no point in stopping because you've already come this far. I feel that way every night. I feel like I just wanna disappear and pretend nothing ever happened. But, I'm already in too deep and there's no going back for me. It's not like that for you. You still have people who love you and wouldn't want you to continue this. Think about your parents. What would they think? Would they want you to continue?"

"Fuck my parents." I could see tears welling in his eyes. "They don't care about me."

"That's not true, Earl—"

"What do you know?!" His words were harsh and cut deep. More like they cut open a scar that I had only barely recently healed.

"I know that I wish my parents were here to—at the very least—_not care about me. _You have that if nothing else. I don't.I'd give anything to see my parents alive, even if they had to hate me. I watched cancer devour my mother and I stood at a TV and watched a man execute my father in front of a news crew." I was looking at my hands; the pain of my father's murder was coming back. "My father was murdered on national television in the exact same way you plan to take Stephanie's life. Don't make her parents go through what I've gone through. Please…don't make me watch another person have their life taken. Please, just let her go. I don't wanna see more blood. You don't wanna see more blood. Let's just end this. Don't make it worse, please." I breathed deeply the pain of the past. "Please, Earl."

The air was still. Stephanie shuddered and bawled. I felt instantly vulnerable, feeling that I may have just compromised my identity both to Earl and Stephanie. If that was a price I had to pay to save a life, though, so be it. Batman, after all, said that we had to make sacrifices no one else could.

I embraced my suppressed pain and poured my heart out to soothe his wounds from suffering more pain. "I have to live with my father's execution for the rest of my life, Earl. It's burned into my memories. I see it every night, I see it now. And, no matter what I do, he'll never come back. They'll never come back. It hurts. I know your hurt, Earl. But you can't let your own damage paralyze you—drive you to do terrible things. Don't be like them. Don't be like the people you hate."

"They all laughed at me," he said solemnly, a tear reaching down his cheek.

"I know. I know they did, but they won't laugh at you anymore. I promise."

I looked up from my hands and met his aggrieved stare. We were on the same page—the same wavelength. He could see the scope of the situation. And, finally, there was a trust between us, a trust created by common hurt. It was similar to trust that was created when I met Batman, Nightwing, and Oracle—Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Barbara Gordon. All of us had lost someone—or something—dear to us. All of us had been crushed by that loss.

Earl pulled the barrel away from Stephanie's head, regarded the weapon, and then looked at me. I hadn't moved. I was looking back, still holding my pain in my hands for him to see. He pointed the barrel at me and then let go of Stephanie's hair, pushing her towards me. Stephanie looked back and forth between us perplexed, not believing that Earl was actually letting her go. I waved her over with the fingers of one hand.

Stephanie took a deliberate step forward, apprehensive of leaving her captor. I raised my hand to reassure her, never looking away from Earl, not while he still had his gun trained on me. She took another step, looking back at him one final time; he paid her no attention. Then, she sprinted the last fifteen feet and collapsed into me, crying. "Oh God," she repeated over and over again.

Her sobs made it hard to focus on Earl. The trembling of her body against my armor and her hoarse breathing was like static electricity, causing all the hair on my body to stand up. I was suddenly aware of every follicle. I wondered if she only felt an armored, hardened Robin or if she could feel me—Tim Drake—underneath it all. Right then, I understood why Batman said not to make it personal. I couldn't be Tim, I had to be Robin. There was, after all, still a gun being pointed at us.

"Thank you, Earl. You did the right thing. It's over."

"It's not over," his was voice solemn but still sharp, "it'll never be over."

I resisted the urge to put my arms around Stephanie. "Earl, we all make our mistakes. What's important is how we learn from them."

"No. They'll always talk about me. They'll never accept me. Not after this. It's like you said, it'll only be worse."

"It'll only be worse if you can't accept responsibility for your actions. Don't do something you'd regret."

Earl shook his head. "I _already_ regret this."

"But we can get through this."

"How?"

"Together."

"Not after this." His eyes found the ceiling and he let out a sigh of resignation. "What was I thinking?"

"Forget what happened. We can't change the past…and the future hasn't come yet. Just focus on right now—right this second." I extended my hand. "Gimme the gun."

"I can't."

Sweat started to pool in my cowl. "Yes, you can."

Defeat was starting to color Earl's face. He gritted his teeth trying to desperately to fight back tears. Then, he planted the barrel of the gun against his own temple with the handle pointing up.

I moved Stephanie off to the side and closed about half the distance between him and me. "Wait! Earl, this isn't the answer either."

He glanced at me with the base of his vision, not looking away from the ceiling. "What else am I supposed to do, huh? What else? Go to prison? Go to the electric chair? So they can laugh at me and curse me?"

"No, Earl—"

"What heaven will want me, when even this _hell_ doesn't?"

"Earl, please." My eyes stung with tears. "Please, you have to listen to me. I won't let you throw your life away."

_Tim, this is conscience: Hold it together, Robin!_

"I already have," he whispered crushed.

"No you haven't! This was all just a mistake! There's redemption for everyone!"

"Even the people that took your father's life?"

I pressed my jaw together, holding my breath. The answer was, _No. _But I said, "Yes!"

I lied.

I wasn't sure if Earl could tell. He swallowed hard. "I don't even know your name."

"Robin."

My name is Tim.

"My name is Robin. Now, put the goddamn gun down."

"I'm sorry, Robin."

"NO!"

He pulled the trigger. The pistol's roar was savage and unforgiving. It hit the ground before Earl did. Then he just lied there in a circular ray of light from the emergency lighting; just he and the gun.

Stephanie was crying uncontrollably again. I turned away from Earl—not because I wanted to, but because he turned away from himself—wrapped Stephanie up in my cape, and left the loading area through the kitchen. I looked back once and saw Earl's eyes stair at me.


	7. I'm Robin

"Robin!" the rookie yelled running up to me as Stephanie and I staggered through the doorway. I noticed that he managed to evacuate all of the live hostages. "Did he get away?" he asked sounding relieved.

I keyed the voice synthesizer; my voice became a low rumble again. "No, not exactly. He's in the kitchen, near the loading dock."

"You subdued him?" he glanced past me towards the kitchen.

"He's dead."

His face, strained as if suddenly tasting something sour, turned back to me slowly.

"I tried to stop him. But he wouldn't listen. And, he took his own life."

"Holy Mary, Mother of—"

I wondered if God had been with us today. Maybe He had abandoned us. Maybe He had abandoned Gotham. Maybe He had accepted what we couldn't. Maybe we were on fool's crusade and He left Gotham shaking His head...

"I've done all I can," I said after a split-second of contemplation. "I have to go."

"But—"

His radio came alive, "Unit 5776, this is SWAT Team leader Bravo. Say your position."

I withdrew my cape. "Take her, I have to go."

Stephanie became instantly hysterical. "No. No. No. Please, don't leave me. Please don't leave me here."

I retreated inside my cape, "You're safe. This man is a Law Enforcement Officer from the GCPD."

I tried not to let her emotions fluster me like that did before. I pushed Tim deeper into the armor where he couldn't be hurt. I let Robin take the brunt of the emotions. Robin didn't take it personal. Robin didn't have personal damage that could paralyze him. Tim had done his job. Now, it was time for Robin to finish it.

"No please. Please. Please. Don't leave me here."

"I'm sorry." I wasn't going to say her name again; Robin didn't care for her name. If I said her name again, she may have seen Tim. "I have to go. I can't stay here."

The radio crackled to life again, "Unit 5776, do you copy? This is SWAT Team leader Bravo. Say your position."

The rookie toggled the mic with his thumb. "This is Unit 5776. I'm in the cafeteria with several DOAs and two of the subdued gunmen. There's a third one in the library."

"Unit 5776, you were instructed to remain outside the premises."

"Uh—yeah—I saw lives in jeopardy and had to respond. Bound by oath and all."

"Whatever, 5776. Is the vigilante on-site?"

The rookie and I looked at each other. Seconds felt like minutes.

"Unit 5776, did you copy my last?"

"Yes, Unit 5776 copied. The vigilante is gone. I repeat: the vigilante is gone."

"Roger. We're moving through the main corridor clearing all remaining rooms. Hold your position. We'll come to you."

"Unit 5776 understands."

"I won't forget this," I said pulling my grapnel gun from its housing, my voice betraying my appreciation.

"Neither will I."

I fired it into the darkness hanging from the buttresses, heard it anchor, and then quickly wrapped the filament around my riser's lifting-point.

"Robin."

I looked at him.

"You know I'm supposed to arrest you?"

I nodded. "I didn't get your name," I said pulling the line taut.

"Reese Glendinning. Officer Reese Glendinning."

I managed a smile and pressed the motor. I leapt off the ground and flew up into the darkness, my cape flapping behind me like wings.


	8. Flying Solo

"So that's it?"

"Well, I wish I could say I saved the girl, made-out with her, and posed for the camera. But that didn't happen. The whole thing just plays over and over again in my head. The same way watching my dad on TV did."

Nightwing looks moved as he sits on the counter in the kitchen of Bruce's downtown penthouse. He is fresh out of his armor and had been relaxing on the couch when I showed up. I'm still in my armor but have my cowl removed; it sits like a helmet on the dining room table near the door to the helicopter pad. It stares at me now; Robin's staring at me.

"I just don't get it, man," I say to him; he doesn't look up. "It's like we're not accomplishing anything. For every drug dealer and crooked cop we take down, two more pop up. And, don't make me get on the psychopaths."

"We all question our position in life, Robin."

"That's just it, I don't know if I wanna be Robin forever. I don't even know if I wanna be Robin right now. What if I just wanna go off to college, hang out with friends, and get a job waiting tables? I mean I just turned eighteen."

"So then why don't you do that?" Nightwing sounds a lot more like an older brother than a man who mauls criminals with his bare hands. "Why are you Robin, Tim?"

"Because something tells me I have to be. I can't explain it."

"That's called _duty, _Tim."

"Yeah, but why me? I didn't ask for any of this. I watched a girl breathe her last breath tonight, Dick—her last breath. I almost saw a girl I know get her head blown off, too."

"Sometimes, duty calls on us at times we consider inopportune."

I suck my teeth. "Can we go just one night without philosophy?"

"You asked," he retorted running his hand through his black hair. It's longer than I agree with, criminals tend to grab hair when they panic. It's the reason I keep mine cropped short. After that, he's silent besides tapping the cabinet with his heel. I look around the enormous kitchen thinking that it's nearly as wide as the cafeteria at the cathedral. It makes me uneasy.

"What would have happened if you hadn't been there?" said Nightwing finally.

"I got that," I snap. "I'm not dumb, you know."

"Hear me out." Nightwing pauses for effect. "Think about how many families would have been short a member. Think about all that grief. Think about all your grief when your family wound up short a member."

"I haven't forgot."

"It may seem like an uphill battle, but isn't every one person you can protect from your pain—our pain—worth the fight? Isn't every one person you can provide justice to worth the fight?" He stares through me, his blue eyes reflect the same pain I feel inside.

"Yeah. It's just…," I see an image of Stephanie as the girl who died on the library floor, "…it's just that fighting isn't a problem. It's watching people die."

"Tim, fighting is how _you_ cope. It's like me jumping off buildings. And, Bruce being Batman every hour of the day he can manage. But, I assure you, death isn't easy for anybody."

"Sane."

"Yeah," Nightwing laughs, "anybody sane. So don't count yourself out because some nights are tougher than others. What we do isn't easy. And, who else is going to do it if we don't?

"What?" I walk to the refrigerator. "Get dressed up in Halloween costumes, jump off buildings like maniacs, and live up to urban legends that we spread?"

"I was referring to shouldering the burden of duty, clown."

"Yeah, I got you. The feeling just sucks, especially when I have to do things like talk a guy out of killing somebody and then watch him _off_ himself."

"Well, we taught you how to be a better fighter than you were. And, we taught you how to be something more than just a man."

I suck my teeth again, more philosophy. I don't need this, not right now. My head is already pounding.

"All of which you do exceptionally." Nightwing's stare was exacting, reminding me of Batman. "But, we didn't teach you to be a negotiator. What you did this evening is extraordinary. Hell, negotiators go to school for a long time. And, you did it as improv."

I push my cape out of the way and open the fridge, pulling a bottle of soda from the shelf and pouring myself a glass. "You barely have in anything in here," I note.

"Between acting as Bruce's figurehead for Wayne Enterprises and beating up wannabe gangsters, when am I ever here? I don't have the luxury of Alfred to make sure I have food in the house like you and Bruce."

I shrug and take a sip. The fizz eases the sourness in my mouth.

"Anyway," Nightwing continues, "That's why we chose you. To be Robin, I mean. Because, deep inside, we could see that you were better than any of us could hope to be. I see a better Gotham City every time I see you suit-up.

"And, for the record, Tim, I want you to know, even if the Bat can't say it out of that meat-grinder for a mouth, the Bat _is_ proud of you."

I manage a smile—that's something Batman can't do.

"Feel better?"

"Something like that."

"Good." Nightwing slides off the counter and starts out of the kitchen; I suddenly notice that all of the scars covering his chiseled back—evidence of the danger of being a vigilante—make a checker-pattern. "I need to get a shower and some sleep. I have an interview in the morning."

"An interview? With who?"

"Sam Mosley on Gotham City Tonight."

Better him than me.

"I do have one more thing, though, Dick."

He doesn't stop; he keeps heading towards the stairs to the master bedroom. "Shoot."

"I found this on the floor in the bathroom among the bodies. It was covered by the blood."

Nightwing turns around as he reaches the first set of living room furniture, gingerly rubbing a fresh injury on his shoulder, and sees the joker playing card I'm holding up. His brow furrows. That happens when he has a hunch.

"It could been nothing but the gunmen found a reason to murder a number of hostages in a bathroom, the same one that I found this in. I have this nagging feeling that the murders and connected somehow to the Joker. Should I go talk to Batman about this or keep investigating until I come up with something more concrete?"

Nightwing's face becomes hard as stone. "Absolutely not. No more investigating. I'll go talk to Bruce about it today."

"I mean, it's not trouble—"

"Absolutely not." He beckoned it with his fingers. "Give me the card and I'll handle Bruce." I gave it to him. "In the meantime, I want you to look into something else."

"Okay."

"I want you to do some surveillance on a few low-lifes that I suspect are involved with the False Face Society."

"False Face Society?"

"Yeah, it's a cult-of-personality led by Roman Sionis, also-known-as Black Mask. He fled the country about three years ago and we believe that he's still commanding the False Facers from where ever he's in exile."

"Are they into anything serious?"

"Not really, but they're serious enough for me to keep an eye on. Can you do that for me?

"Yeah, of course. Where do I start?"

"That's up to you, sport. Call Oracle and she'll start you on their trail. I have to get some sleep. In the meantime, don't stress it too much. Remember, one of the gunmen survived. He'll talk once he recovers."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Talk or recover?"

"Talk."

"Oh, he will. Criminals are cowards—they always talk in the end." He pauses as if he notices something that he hadn't noticed before. His eyes scrutinize me then he says, "Tim, leave the playing card to me and Batman, okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Good." Nightwing turns and continues towards the master bedroom, disappearing up the steps—like Batman tends to do when he's through with a conversation even if you're not. For every one difference Nightwing and Batman have, they have two similarities.

Well, I guess I'm flying solo on this one.


End file.
